


Au ralenti je soulève les interdits

by ArtanisNaanie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Based on prompts, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlets, Light Bondage, M/M, No Beta, Non-Penetrative Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porny one shots, Riding, Shameless Smut, we die like idiots who don't take the time to have their work betaed, writing exercises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26212666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtanisNaanie/pseuds/ArtanisNaanie
Summary: Collection of porny one-shots I write to get a grasp on writing smut. Various pairings to come, various fandoms as well. Every chapter will have individual tagging and eventual warnings.The title comes from Guesh Patti's song  "Etienne", which is in my opinion one of the sexiest ever.English is not my first language and this work is not betaed, so all mistakes are mine. Constructive criticism is welcome, when done kindly.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 92





	1. Geralt and Jaskier against a tre, K.I.S.S.I.N.G

**Author's Note:**

> Number 1: Geraskier, outdoor sex, clothed sex, "potions made them do it" if you squint, for Arthur's prompt "Sex with or on a tree"

He doesn’t know how they ended up here, his back scraping the bark of a big tree, the fabric of his chemise tearing against it, the pain spiking in his shoulders, his legs wrapped around Geralt’s waist.

He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, because the lips on his are hot and insistent, a clever tongue invading his mouth, sharp teeth clashing with his own and biting his lower lip. There’s pain, at his back and his lip, and the sting of it only sharpens his want. His dick is already straining in his breeches as he ruts mindlessly against Geralt leather armor (more pain, more pleasure, when did he become a masochist?), his hands tugging at the white strands of his friend and obtaining a low growl at that. He does it again, strongly enough that Geralt separates his mouth from Jaskier’s and no, that won’t do.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts, the hands under his ass digging in his flesh, keeping him pinned against the tree, and Jaskier wants to get down, wants to put his hands and his mouth all against the magnificent body he knows is hidden under the leather and the fabric and too many layers, damn it, and at the same time he wants to stay there forever, the sting of the bark and the constraint of his breeches, Geralt black, black eyes like endless pools barely seeing him.

He moans, diving again for the Witcher’s mouth, and Geralt lets him slide slightly against the bark to put his cock against his own, hard and hot even under the unfairly tight leather pants he insists on wearing. Jaskier moans again, the sound reverberating against the leaves and the branches just above him and gaining intensity, as if the only sounds in the clearing where they set up camp before Geralt left for his hunt are their mixed noises of pleasure.

They rut against each other, hard cock against hard cock, the layers of fabric between them tampering the drag, the friction, but none of their arousal. The dark veins on Geralt’s face still pulse under the effect of the potions and Jaskier can feel his heartbeat accelerating, its sound loud in his ears, almost as loud as Geralt’s grunts. The Witcher’s fingers dig deep in the meat of his ass and Jaskier hopes they leave marks, just as the tree at his back, signs that will prove tomorrow in the daylight that this is not just a very vivid dream; he had those before.

He’s uncomfortable, and the movement of Geralt’s hips is too forceful, and his dick aches from frustration and arousal, but there’s nowhere else he would like to be. So he keeps kissing and biting, and at one point he bites Geralt’s lips so hard he draws blood and Geralt snarls, letting him down and manhandling him until his facing the tree, hands grasping at the cortex looking for something to hold on to, while his whole body is pushed against the tree and Geralt starts rutting against his ass, face buried in the curve of his neck, his breaths tickling the sensitive skin there.

The WItcher’s movements seem to become increasingly frantic, and Jaskier gives up on cushing his face from the bark and shoves a hand in his breeches, grasping his dick probably too hard, tugging on it with too much strength, the friction entirely too dry, the movement stifled by his clothes, and it’s still enough apparently when he hears Geralt moan loudly just against his ear, his cock snuggled against his crack pulsing his release, and he comes in his pants like the kid he is no more.

They pants together for what feels like hours, cum cooling on Jaskier’s hand and dick, the solid weight of Geralt’s bulk against his scratched back.

“Jaskier…” Geralt says, his voice still lower than usual, his lips brushing the curve of his neck.

“Hmm…” Jaskier answers, turning his face to look at him, meeting black eyes still embedded in a white face struck in dark. He pushes his ass against Geralt’s crotch, feeling the hot, hard length still resting against his ass. He smiles slightly.

“Can we take the time to undress at least this time, Witcher?”

“Hmm” is the only answer he gets. 


	2. Things that bump in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel/Geralt, for Karma's prompt "sweet first time".. with a little twist.

The rooms in Kaer Morhen are cold, that’s the excuse Eskel and Geralt have had for years. It’s a good one because it’s based on the truth: the rooms of the keep are cold, during summer as during winter, and the thin and worn furs they have on their cots are entirely unsuited to keep them warm. It’s an excuse nonetheless, because after the Trials their bodies can resist low temperatures as if they were nothing, and they could sleep buried in the snow if they had to. Despite this, Geralt still looks for the warmth of Eskel’s body during the night as he did when they were kids, when his friend was smaller than him and it was Geralt who curled around his back, nose in his nape.

Now they’re Witchers, months away to be sent on the Path, and Eskel’s bulk dwarfs him from where he spoons him, tightly squeezed on a bed that became too narrow for them years ago. They still find ways to fit, though, legs intertwined, Eskel’s strong arm around his middle, his breath hot on his neck that sends shivers down his spine, pooling in his lower belly, just above the base of his dick. The gash he received during the morning training in his leg still pulses sluggishly, but even the slight pain can’t distract him from the low thrum of arousal that’s slowly building.

“Geralt,” Eskel chuckles, low voice reverberating between them only, deep enough to not be heard from the two other Witchers sleeping just feet away. Gweld and Gardis know better than to listen to what happens at night in their corner of the common bedroom, but it’s basic politeness to keep the volume down.

Geralt just shrugs, the silent laugh of his brother shaking against his back making him smile. Eskel’s hand travels down along the planes of his stomach, slides under the tie of his smallclothes, and brushes the shaft of his rapidly swelling cock, grasping it lightly. Geralt rocks into the hand, trying to move as little as possible, but every movement sents his ass against Eskel dick and keeping it discreet is increasingly hard. Like his cock.

This isn’t new. They’ve done it before, explored their bodies with hands and mouths, hidden in empty rooms, or behind the stables. They’ve done it in their bed, too, a way to calm down the body and prepare it to sleep, a way to reassure one another that they are alive, still. But Eskel starts to kiss his neck slowly, a brush of lips more than anything else, and goosebumps erupt on Geralt’s arms. He raises his free hand towards Eskel’s head, linking his fingers on his brown hair and tugging, pressing Eskel’s mouth more forcefully on his skin, and Eskel complies. The scrape of the lips transforms into open-mouthed kisses that leave a damp trail on his shoulder that picks up the draft in the wall beneath them. Geralt inclines his head to give him more space, the hand on his cock almost forgotten before the novelty of those sweet kisses.

Eskel comes back against his neck, stops under his ear, licks at his ear lobe, and Geralt shivers.  
Eskel glides across his jaw and Geralt turns his head instinctively until their lips meet, soft and yet rough, demanding and giving all at once.

Eskel’s hand speeds up on his dick and Geralt moves accordingly, Eskel’s cock slotted against his crack, and the sensations make him gasp softly but wide enough for Eskel to invade his mouth with his tongue, wet and hot and foreign. Their tongues dance a dance they don’t know and seem to have always known, and Geralt needs to keep the sounds that threaten to spill out of him down, lest they wake up the others.

He finally leaves Eskel’s hair alone, his hands both shuffling with the ties of his underclothes, finally freeing his cock under the covers, and tugs at them to undress his ass, too. Eskel leaves his grasp and frees his dick, too, before sliding it between Geralt’s thighs, the head of it bumping slightly against his balls with every movement, and they start to kiss again, and kiss again, and kiss again, their bodies moving not against each other but with each other, like when they spar just for fun.

The bed creaks under their rocking, its sound echoing in the big, almost empty room as a crack of thunder. They freeze for a long moment, golden eyes looking into amber ones, and when no other sound responds except for Gweld’s snores they crackle, laughing quietly mouth against each other. As the amusement dies, though, the urgency reappears, and their movements are quicker, deeper; Eskel squeezes his cock in his hand, letting his thumb spreading the fluid that’s leaving his slit on his crown, and Geralt suffocates his moan against Eskel’s tongue. Eskel’s dick is hard and big and leaking and his thighs are damp from precum and sweat and everything is smooth and wonderful and it rises and it rises until it crests like a flood that takes away everything and leaves nothing in its wake. Nothing except the feeling of wet skin and soaked sheets.

They still don’t stop kissing. 


	3. I quite like seeing you all tied up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt/Jaskier, DarkDova's prompt was "One person is tied and the other is riding" 
> 
> Bottom!Jaskier, established relationship of some kind, bondage I guess?

“Jaskier, why am I tied to the bed?”

“Because if you move you’re going to jostle that pretty enormous gash you have on your chest, Geralt,” Jaskier answers, as if the ties he used to link his wrists to the bed base could really stop Geralt from getting up if he wanted. They couldn't. Geralt knows this and Jaskier must know this, too. 

The wound on his pectoral is pretty deep, but it’s already healing. Had he been left to his own devices Geralt would have pushed through the pain and discomfort, taken his money, and rode in the sunset. Since he is shackled to a fussy bard, however, he has been holed up in this frankly dirty inn room, forced into a bath - “I don’t care if you washed yesterday, Geralt, you smell like a rusty swamp” -, been fed two Swallows in a short time, been bandaged by hands that have become extremely good at it and, apparently, been tied to the bed. 

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier waves his hand vaguely in his direction above his shoulder while he fusses with the Witcher potions.

“Jaskier, don’t mess with my stuff,” Geralt groans, because every time the bard puts his hands in his potions’ stock he puts them in the wrong order, and then Geralt takes Blizzard instead of Cat and everything goes to shit. Again. 

“I’m not, love, I’m just checking if you have everything ready,” Jaskier answers, still not turning. It’s a bit strange. Usually, Jaskier is always in his face for one reason or another, and definitely more when he’s wounded. 

“Well, untie me and I can check myself.”

“Ah, well, yes, but no.” The bard turns and his face is flushed, Geralt doesn’t know why. He bites his lips for a second, his eyes roving on Geralt’s body, then starts to talk again. “See, I quite like seeing you tied to the bed. I know, I know you could get up any minute, that’s not the point! Point is, you’re really pretty like that, half-naked on the covers, hands bound... So I think I’m going to keep you like that for a while.”

Oh.

Geralt smiles slightly, taking in Jaskier’s appearance. He’s in his chemise and trousers, the fabric of the top sheer enough to be see-through, the shape of his torso clearly visible in the low candlelight. His pants are tight at the crotch, his face is red, his lower lip swollen. He’s really pretty himself. 

“And what are you doing with me all trussed up, Jaskier?”

Jaskier gets even redder, which Geralt didn’t think would be possible. He doesn’t understand how someone like Jaskier, who has sex - ”make love, Geralt, I love them even if it’s only for a night!” “More like ten minutes.” “How _dare_ you!” - with a large variety of people all the time keeps being so bashful about it, but he always finds the flush in his cheeks very entertaining, so he doesn’t question it too much. 

“I think I’m going to sit right here,” Jaskier sits on a chair next to the bed, “and simply watch you. Can’t have you scrambling too much, now, can we?” 

His smile is evil despite the blush, his blue eyes glinting in the low light, his hair shining golden. He looks at Geralt, all of him, and Geralt feels his glare like a physical touch that teases him and makes his temperature spike. 

“Jaskier…”

“What, love?” the bard answers, slowly unbuttoning his chemise and revealing his chest to Geralt. The Witcher will never not be surprised at how wide and hairy he is, under his fancy clothes that make him look like a peacock. 

“You’re teasing.”

“Hmm yes, Witcher, I think I am,” Jaskier replies, letting the garment hang open from his shoulders and sliding his hands along his torso. Geralt bites his lip. It would be so easy to free himself from the ties. So easy. But that wouldn’t be fun, after all.

Jaskier spreads his legs, lounging on the chair until his ass is on the very edge, and his hands go from his chest where they were playing with his hair to the inner seam of his breeches, slowly traveling from the knees to the visible bulge between his thighs. Geralt can’t take his eyes off him and it takes a lot of concentration not to rip the bounds and jump him right where he is. He can feel his dick filling along his thigh, starting to push against his smallclothes, and he wants to touch it. He resists anyway.

“Do you want to touch me?” Jaskier asks, pressing the heel of his hand against his straining dick, then starting to unlace his pants.

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Do you want me to touch you?” he says while tugging at his trousers and smallclothes all together until he’s naked, sprawled on the chair, his pretty cock hard and resting against his lower belly, beautifully framed by groomed, dark curls. 

“ _Yes_.”

“Ah, Witcher, you’re going to be a bit patient, yes?” Jaskier winks then gets up. His back his muscled and his shoulder are wide, but the part of his anatomy that most retains Geralt’s attention is his ass; it bounces when Jaskier walks the three steps that divide him from his pack, round and white and perfect. Jaskier leans to his pack without crouching and gods, the sight of him bent in half has Geralt trying to rock his hips slightly just to feel something, even if that something is just the caress of fabric on his cock and it’s entirely not enough and frustrating as hell. 

Jaskier comes back to the chair, his dick bobbing as he walks, then straddles it with his back to Geralt again. 

“You’re being very good, Geralt, thank you.”

“Hurry up, bard,” Geralt replies huskily, and Jaskier just laughs. There's the sound of a cork being released, then a hand snakes behind Jaskier’s balls and oiled fingers start to touch his hole, all in a wonderful display for Geralt, who can’t be blamed for letting a moan leave his lips. His hips twitch still, the movement getting nowhere, and he looks entranced as one, then two, then finally -finally!- three fingers enter Jaskier's asshole and the bard is bouncing on them, head bent backward, pretty whimpers and moans leaving his throat unbidden. Geralt is at his wit’s end.

“Jaskier, for fuck’s sake, if you don’t want me to break the bed as I get up come here and _sit on my fucking cock_ ,” he grits between his teeth, and Jaskier laughs, low and dark, while he takes out his fingers and stands on shaky legs. 

“Have I overcome your patience, love?”

“Since the day we met, bard,” he snaps back, but there’s no bite to it, just an edge of desperation. 

Jaskier laughs again, tugging feverishly at Geralt’s smallclothes enough to put them under his dick and balls to display them nicely. When he takes a minute to look at it Geralt just growls.

“Oh don’t you growl at me, Witcher. You’re not as scary as you think you are.”

Geralt doesn’t want to be scary, he wants a hand on his dick and his cock in Jaskier’s ass, and luckily the bard seems to get it because soon there’s a greasy hand on him and the relief is staggering. Geralt arches his back towards the sensation that stops way too soon, only to be replaced by something a lot tighter, smoother, and hotter.

Jaskier lowers himself slowly on Geralt’s cock, making little rocky movements to force it in, stopping every few inches to breathe through the invading feeling. Geralt, for his part, starts to think of every potion’s composition he knows, hoping that thinking about drowner brain and green mold can stop him from buckling into Jaskier and just _erupt_.

It works for the little eternity it takes for Jaskier to sit on him, and then they look into each other’s eyes, Geralt getting lost in the vast abyss that are Jaskier’s irises when he’s aroused, and Jaskier starts to move. 

“Jask…” Geralt breathes, bending his legs for a better angle and starting to thrust, following Jaskier’s rhythm, “...kiss me.”

Jaskier just hums, his eyes unfocused, his hands planted on the bed near Geralt’s head, pinning some of his hair to it which he feels as he tries to get up to kiss him but leans down again at the tug. Jaskier finally leans down, his lips hot on Geralt’s, his tongue invading his mouth in the same rhythm his hips move around his cock. 

“Fuck me,” he whispers in the space between them, then frees one of his hands to grasp his dick as he stills, letting Geralt thrust in and out of him, deeper, harder, and the sounds he makes are swallowed by Geralt’s lips and mouth and tongue and still they ring in the room like echoes. 

Geralt can’t stand it anymore and his hips stutter while he groans through his orgasm, the hot clamp of Jaskier’s ass milking everything from him and leaving him empty, mind floating above his body as his belly almost cramps, and then the vise gets tighter still when Jaskier clenches through his climax too, his cum splattering over Geralt skin, hot like a brand, while his moans rise high enough to wake up the whole inn. Geralt doesn’t care.

When Jaskier is done clenching and trembling through his aftershocks he unties the bounds at Geralt’s wrists and the Witcher envelops him in a hug, kissing him softly.

“Geralt, let me get up, I need to clean...”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Now it’s you who’s bound, bard, and I think I pretty like it,” Geralt smiles, tightening his grasp around Jaskier’s torso, and he laughs as the bard tries to free himself ineffectively. 

They end up sleeping like that, both dirty and sweaty, cum sticking everywhere and bodies slippery from oil, and Geralt sleeps like the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and comments!
> 
> Since these are writing exercises comments are very welcome, so I can get better! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
